Uncaging the Canary
Observation Deck -- V2SD Nemesis The observation deck grants the best views of any position aboard the Nemesis - less useful perhaps than the Bridge, but the vast tanctonium bubble is unimpeded by databanks, control consoles and sensor stations. The majestic grey hull of the star destroyer stretches away into the distance, towers of her turbolaser batteries forming regimented lines with a pleasing symmetry. The room of choice for all manner of functions, the space is routinely adapted to service the needs of the moment. 'Behold V2SD Nemesis, in all her glory.' Those were Ambrosia's instructions, when last left up here, gazing upon the unobstructed view. It's one that threatens to swallow an observer whole, so thinly protected by the curvaceous, tanctonium pane. It's one she desires to be just one, small step nearer, to pass through, to tumble in unison with the ships and stars, forever encircling her forsaken home. But she's here, standing motionlessly poised before the all-encompassing window, and within the all-encompassing chill. A glass of wine and plate of food remain untouched atop a table several paces away. A second meal is set there for her present, equally silent company - Lt. Kovani - who is currently, likewise, ignored. Her eyes, her thoughts, are too focused on the zip of patrolling ships and the occasional flash of brightness in the darkness beyond. The change in view comes also with change in clothes. She's once more trussed up in fine threads. The gown is a pale, blush color and flows in loose, heavy pleats from hips to floor. The waist is cinched in by a few frontal folds, above which the fabric is gathered into several smaller pleats, angled upwards over the bust. A heavy piece of emerald embroidery, sewn into an elaborate 'R', is fastened over the central, meeting point of all the bustline drapes and folds. The neckline is modest enough, but stretches along her collarbones to the silver clasps that clamp over the far edge of each shoulder. A lament, a siren's swan song, softly lilts from the Ambassador's throat. More hummed than sung. The ever-vigilant guards hover within reach, as always, listening in stoic silence. That is, until one of them gets a call... Docking Bay -- V2SD Nemesis The primary docking bay of a Victory II-class Star Destroyer is considerably smaller than those of the similarly configured but much larger Imperial-class. A large hangar whose bay doors form a floor while not in use provides for docking smaller craft while fore and aft yawning particle-shielded openings lead to the primary and secondary launch bays. Recharging sockets adorn the walls at regular intervals and neat yellow guidelines on the gleaming durasteel deck marks individual bays for the ship's TIE compliment, dropships and shuttles. A controller's booth at the far end of each hangar overlooks the bays from behind reinforced transparisteel. Guard duty: it is a boring assignment. His Imperial Majesty's Ship, the Victory-II Class Star Destroyer Nemesis is essentially serving that very purpose at the moment. As the lead vessel in the group currently in orbit of Caspar it has a prestigious position, but as its troops have been largely deployed to the surface, leaving mostly the Naval personnel, it has settled into a position where it mostly serves as a runway and control tower for the squadrons of TIE fighters maintaining the fighter cap and as a communications relay point for the deployed forces. Unless there is an attack on the Imperial line, the Nemesis is unlikely to do more for the duration of the siege. While the crew is vigilant, and actively fights the temptation to give into the malaise, a prolonged state of readiness wears on the psyche and takes its toll. Additionally, the usual troops who handle security are mostly off ship, making the situation unusually ripe for a well scripted, surgical, covert action. The main hangar bay is very active this morning, the Nemesis is currently going through recovery and take off operations as fighters assigned to the fighter cap are landing, and their replacements are taking off. Additionally a cargo transport has been added to the landing schedule -- all a typical day aboard an active Star Destroyer. Shuttle 'Ticonderoga' is an older Lambda-class light utility transport. Its distinctive tri-wing profile makes for a fairly run of the mill sight between Imperial ships as she closes in on the ventral hangar bay, her engines cutting to half 'port-speed' as she waits for the lowering of the particle shields. The less typical aspect is her cargo. A dozen Republic Marines of the 244th 'Raiders' Battalion crew the craft, having eschewed their typical duty uniforms and engagement body armour in favour of knock-off Imperial uniforms.The black flight-suits and mocked-up pilot helmets of the two men in the cockpit are convincing enough, if one only looks at the back of their heads, while more attention has been paid to getting the olive-grey jump-suits and black caps of Imperial naval ratings correct. "Alright, ladies!" Lt Amaya 'Halo' Halos stamps upon the deck to draw the attention of the chattering soldiers, climbing to her feet and taking a hold of an overhead anchor she plants a boot on the crate-laden repulsor sled that divides the team in half. "Listen up! Fear is a four letter word, you wanna go pee-pee in your big boy pants - keep it to yourself! Once we're through security, Alpha makes its way to the state rooms. You got your schematics back on base, so I sure as hell hope you read them. Bravo finds an in to their communications network. When this goes south, and it /will/ sooner or later, I want to shut down every form of communication on or off this ship that doesn't involve a man in an EVA suit and two flags. You read me, Raiders?!" As the last TIE fighter lines up for approach and disappears into the big open hole, the communications system cracks to life, "Shuttle Ticonderoga, Nemesis control, that was the last TIE, you are cleared to proceed along standard landing approach. Hangar control will direct you to a parking spot on landing- please acknowledge, over." On the landing deck, a young conscript from the outer rim in a vac suit, a bright orange vest and shinny lit cones steps into the aft section to waive the shuttle into its spot. It is just another day on the mobile spaceport. "They're not going for it..." the first pilot shifts tensly in his seat as they close in on the Nemesis' hangar bay. "...ease up on the trigger there." his co-pilot responds. "Just...fly casual." When the approval comes in across the radio, both men share a look and their posture visibly relaxes. "Affirmative, Nemesis Control. Ticonderoga, out." they cut the channel. "Told you they'd go for it...Sir! We're coming in for landing!" he calls back. "You hear that, marines? Kitten whispers and tickle-fights stop now. Everyone insert their sticks up their butts, think about smelling something bad and remember we're all one big, happy Empire!" The shuttle glides in to dock, setting down in the waiting bay. Her gangplank descends with a slow hiss of hydraulics and checking the tight twist of her hair in a pocket mirror, Halo dons her cap and takes her place at the head of the procession, repulsor sled and its large man-sized crates bringing up the rear as they make their way toward the turbolift. "Hold up crewman," a chief in his thirties calls out. He exudes arrogance. "Apparently the quality of training has gone down hill a great deal since the loss of the OS Guardian. Back in my day, we knew better -- there are documents to sign, inventories to verify, and manifests to check before those crates go anywhere. Bring it all back!" He doesn't even look up from his data pad as he begins walking over to the shuttle. He doesn't suspect a boarding party; he is all too familiar with poorly trained crew. "Now, where is your pilot, I need start pushing the forms!" (FROM DECK THREE) ‘5’ rolls his eyes inside his helmet. "You can't wait...sixteen minutes?" Ambrosia draws a deep, shaky breath and exhales a delicate fog to mar her view. Her lips twitch with semblance of dark humor and she lifts one finger towards the newly formed canvas... "Time to go, 'Madame'," Trooper '5' interrupts her train of thought with a firm touch upon her right, bared shoulder. She snaps to, casting a look of disgust upon the glove and roughly shrugs it away. A rigid spine and puffed chest accompany the smug little glare aimed at her caretakers. "No need to lay hand upon a pardoned woman. Just lead on. Wasn't much in the mood for supper, truth be told." '9', as he/she is called, has commanded Kovani away from the table with equal insistence, and the two of them stand waiting. The sense of tension is almost palpable, blank-eyed masks staring at her with...what? Urgency? Boredom? Loathing? "What's the hurry?" Delgard queries, a blend of concern and tentative hope knitting her brows together. "Shift change. Just move it," 5's vocoder grunts and nudges her away from the window with a rifle butt 'pat' to her hip. See? No hands! (Back in Docking Bay) Great. Paperwork. Halo stops in her tracks, the remainder of the procession which has fallen into a two-abreast file does the same and she turns, snapping to attention she has the mindfulness not to salute a non-com. "Sir!" she address the deck officer, breaking from her formation to approach the man. "He's still aboard the shuttle, sir." she points across her own body. "Sorry, sir. We're behind. Repairs at Ketterslea took longer than planned for. Someone thought you could replace an entire distributed charge array in under twenty minutes. We've two more stops after this and my Cee-Oh is an impatient man." Halo puts on her best 'exhausted, over-worked, underpaid, unappreciated expression. "Did you want to inspect the cargo?" she offers, nodding to her men who begin the laborious process of releasing maglocks on the weighty crates. "Wait," the chief replies, perplexed as he begins searching through the documents he has on his pad. "Am I to understand that you will be performing the repairs yourselves? Are there orders for that in here? I think someone may have failed to file those." (From Deck Three) The 'pat' earns trooper 9 an especially incensed look from the ambassador, but she cooperates nevertheless. The wine and succulent roast are left to watch the interstellar ballet alone, while the four bodies file away from the observation deck - two women between the two troopers, single column. Tromping boots march steadily along this corridor of deck three, en route to crew quarters. Off beat are the footfalls between, namely the limping click-clack of Ambrosia's shoes. Another pair of frivolous waste, molded to her feet with uncanny fit. Much like the gown. Gripping her fists together tightly at the low of her back, she welcomes the dig of fingernails into flesh as distraction from her complaining knees. Very, very slightly does she dip her chin aside, stealing an over-the-shoulder glance to the petite blond behind her. Blue eyes uplift to meet the green, just for a moment. The former imperial medic looks blanched. Ambrosia faces forward again before the rear trooper can issue protest, and instead peers down her nose into the hammock of fabric draping over her breasts. A shiny, metallic tip of *something* winks up at her from its nest inside the pocket of cleavage. Still there...still deactivated...Still undiscovered. The worry had been there, that prying eyes would wander from attention, but three days have passed since the women rendered the device operational, and their good host had not come calling. (Docking Bay) "Always with the section chiefs, sir." Halo confirms, adding a feigned measure of confusion to her own tone. One foot in it, she might as well go the rest of the way. This plan was getting hairier by the minute. "Standard procedure is to report to technical services for confirmation and update of the work orders." She maneuvers around to peer at his datapad, as if to help him identify his missing documents. "Once took twelve weeks for a reported malfunction on a trash compactor to cycle through to repairs. By the time we arrived to fix it, the Chief Engineer had gotten fed up of the waste backing up and gone down there with a hydrospanner to fix it himself." she looks up with a half-smile. "Got the afternoon off on account of that." The chief grunts in acknowledgement, "See it just doesn't make sense, you don't send crewman to carry out minor repairs on the task force flag ship - it's insulting to her own crew, I mean if you had special skills you at least be a chief overseeing a crew of lower NCOs. Command is getting sloppy, too many conscripts and officers who got their station based off favors if you ask me." With that there is a flash and an explosion on the far side of the deck - one of the TIE fighters has caught fire, the refueling procedure has gone horribly wrong. A stream of obscenities streams from the chief's mouth before he calls out to a nearby naval trooper who is covered and armed, "Mr. Banks, take a squad and escort our guests to the Engineering deck, make sure the duty officer signs off on this before they open or do anything." The chief tucks the pad and begins running toward the fire, grabbing his gear as he does. Apparently the Force wants things to proceed. With the fire, the officer on the watch on the bridge sounds general quarters. All throughout the ship, crewmen get out of the halls, and people begin returning to their duty stations, or if off duty, their quarters. While it is a heightened state of readiness, it is primarily designed to make it easier for emergency personnel to move about -- fires are very dangerous. The explosion sets everyone on edge, Halo skipping back and hoping its read as alarm and not preparing for some unscheduled hand-to-hand combat. When the flames from the TIE rise up, she breathes a sigh of relief. "Yes, sir." Halo skips back to attention, nodding a polite and proper goodbye. "Thank you, sir." Ugh. Great. An escort. A look shared between her men confirms what they suspect. They'll need to dispose of these clowns as soon as they're out of sight. "This way crewman," the Naval trooper calls out as he gestures to the aft cargo turbolift. "Jones, Beumont, Haricort, Glasman, Zackrous," he calls out, form up for escort detail. (DECK THREE) "Nine, you stick around and man the door solo till Seven meets you here in..." 5 checks his chronometer. "Four. I've got to relieve Three from lift post." The junior trooper 9 nods helmet affirmatively while punching in the code to State Room Two. 5 turns to point a finger menacingly at Ambrosia's nose. "You two stay in there and don't cause trouble. No more breaking things. I heard about the data terminal...Nine here has authorization to shoot you. Am I clear?" Glowering down the length of that finger and its connecting arm, Ambrosia hisses a reply. "Crystalline." "Good." The heavy double doors withdraw into their sheaths, opening the way for the jailbirds. 5 gives a little wave to 9 as he departs and 9 ushers the two women inside. "See you in--" Cut off by the sudden flash of lights in the corridor and recording that blares through the speakers, 5 scowls. "Perfect. Some other idiot's found a way to get canned." Grumbling, he quickens his pace to a jog and makes haste for his new post. 9, however, hesitates. Was 4 still coming? Still lingering just inside the doorway while fighting through this thought process, he hears the doors thud closed behind him. Locked in. Crap. Boarding the turbolift is something of a performance all by itself, the repulsor sled carefully slid in through the doors, then pivoted to actually clear it from the doorway the 'technicians' pile in thereafter, leaving minimal space for the six troopers to stand between them and the doors. As they slid closed and the turbolift begins to move, Halo gives the nod. With brutal force, heads are bounced off of duraplast walls, powerful arms wind around necks in choke holds. When the turbolift comes to a halt, its not on the engineering deck. And the doors open to spill the unconscious troopers out on the deck. "Alright, Alpha with me. Bravo, get these guys stashed somewhere and get to work on that computer slice. I need the comms down on my mark!" The Naval troopers of course can't tell anyone, anything. So the Nemesis remains blissfully unaware of the intruders. There is however a live and open connection between the bridge and the hangar deck as the officer of the watch listens to the situation unfold. Kovani can't help but to smirk at the rook's mistake. It was a really bad one, after all. Rather than launching an immediate assault on the unfortunate soldier, she follows her companion's lead to the couches. Ambrosia sits, legs crossing with a bit of an inviting lift of the skirts as she casts them aside to better reach her shoes and remove them. A sinister smile - the canary who caught the cat - lights her formerly pensive expression. "Trouble?" The forward lean grants the trooper an undeniably clear view of...options A and B. And the comlink, which rolls out into the ambassador's awaiting palm. She flips the 'on' switch, turns the dial, and fishes for a way to tune in. "Why don't you join me? Lt. Kovani can fetch us some brandy from the bedroom. Hmm? Four minutes is an awfully long time." Kovani fires Ambrosia a rather displeased expression, unmoved from her seat. As 'Bravo' begins checking doors for an inconspicuous place to stash the unconscious troopers Alpha begins gearing up. Rifles pulled from beneath the false bottoms of their crates, they leave the sleds with Bravo team and advance in pairs, junction by junction on their way to the aft section staterooms. The yellow lights on the top of the hallways continue to blink, reminding all that the ship is on alert, and at general quarters. The living areas of the vessel have largely been emptied, hence the hallway is empty. What few guests there are behind closed doors where they belong, and not in traffic. On the bridge, the Captain has arrived and is receiving the situation report from the officer of the watch. A steady stream of comm traffic continues to pour into the bridge from all parts of the ship as gun batteries report themselves ready and duty stations report in that they are secured for action. The crewmen in the communications pit have begun establishing radio contact with the other vessels in the picket and relaying their status. The officer of the watch in charge of the fighter cap is at another station speaking directly to duty officer on a nearby Carrack, which will be taking over local control duties and the XO of the ship is speaking to the XO on the Vindicator, a Victory-I class star Destroyer on the other side of the system. The message to all of them is simple, we have a fire, we are working on containment, until advised otherwise the Nemisis is at reduced capacity and no one should approach." Trooper 5 rounds the corner and halts, staring at a rather out of place assemblage of not techs? "What the hell are you doing up here?" Barks the monotone voice with a point to the sled. And guns. Big guns! An oath breathes through the mask and he begins to rapidly back-step, rifle brought to bear. Today was really ending on a bad note. Poor 9 remains frozen in place, rifle held halfway to his shoulder, sidearm in holster. Shaking his head after a long pause and -careful- consideration, he refuses the invite. "Rebel whore. I know who you are. Give that here, and go stand over there" he gestures to the 'link with the rifle barrel and waves a hand towards the sleeping quarters. Ambrosia tsks, tossing the second shoe aside, but keeping the first held loosely by a strap. She leans back, arms folding over her middle. "Correction: Imperial whore. Rebel politician." Her smile turns colder, still, and she slowly stands on her swollen feet. "Read your files more closely." The comlink gets passed off to Kovani, who toys with it further. The younger woman is clearly distracted, however, chest growing tighter by the passing second as her mother, turned predator(?) stalks their armed jailor on weakened legs. Not a good situation. /NOT/. Seconds masquerading as hours tick by in this awkward, pathetic excuse for a stand off. The prisoner is obviously no match for the armed trooper - unarmed and weak. Not to mention the fact that the very object (person), the string of her manipulation, is just steps away, well within target range. No way would the ambassador be of sound mind to make a move now. Right? Right? But...there IS movement. Outside the door. Halo's team has been very busy. And it seems they've reached the destination for their 'repairs'. Crew Quarters -- V2SD Nemesis Crew quarters are spread across numerous decks of the Nemesis, grouped by station, watch and rank. The bulk of the crew and garrison are enlisted personnel who occupy bunk assignments in reasonable proximity to their duty stations and sharing large mess halls - living, eating, sleeping and working alongside their comrades. Junior commissioned officers are afforded individual quarters separate from the enlisted men, space remains at a premium aboard a warship and these rooms are small but afford a degree of personalization and privacy not dreamed of by the lower orders. Senior officers occupy large (by naval standards) state rooms, furnishing them lavishly. Nine's decision to turn his back on the vengeful prisoner(s) in favor of investigating the activity outside has deadly consequences. At least he does not suffer the indignity of being overpowered by the women, but it's likely that the smoking hole left in his chest is also disappointing. Hearing the tell-tale clicks and stamps as unseen forces tamper with the door seal, Ambrosia drops her shoe and motions for Kovani to quick jacking with the comlink. "Listen..." she mouths, watching 9's body language intently. The trooper doesn't seem particularly relieved by the 'aid' occurring beyond their threshold, given the armed and aimed state of his weapon. Which means... A tiny flame of hope and relief flickers in the ambassador's widened gaze, but it's quickly washed out by remembrance of just how explosive such entries can be...There's the final click-clack-beep, the pop-hiss of unlocked hydraulics, and the inevitable wash of fire. Launching herself at Kovani, Ambrosia tries to shove/tackle/shield the younger woman from the incoming attack, towards the safety of sleeping quarters. Something rather heavy cracks into her hip from behind, mid-flight and brings her down a bit short of her mark, but Kovani's already on the floor, hands covering her ears. The stormtrooper brought down by a screaming volley of blaster fire hasn't even the time to hit the deck before Halo wheels back behind the cowl of the door frame and in pour the disguised marines - they come by twos, crossing one another's diagonal paths to the closest points of cover. "Clear!" One calls, the other tracking his aim between the two prone women as Amaya rounds the edge. "Madame Ambassador?" entreating the woman to emerge from hiding "My name is Lieutenant Halos. 224th Raiders, ma'am. We're here to rescue you." " . . . The third fire suppression team has the port side under control," the play by play report comes filtering up to the bridge; the crackling and chaos can be heard in the background. The Captain and the XO, along with an unknown officer in a light beige jacket stand by the speaker as the report comes in. The anxious Chief approaches the trio of officers, comes to attention and waits. The XO notices him first and breaks the silence, "Spit it out Beumont, it must be important for you to come up here." "Sir, Aye, Sir -we have reports of blaster fire in Senior Officers country on the aft of the crew deck." The chief then turns to one of his subordinates who shakes his head, "Neither of the stormtroopers assigned to our VIP's detail are checking in." Hearing the news, the Captain and the spook turn from the speaker toward the Chief - this may be as important as the fire. Two blonde females inside the cell. The resemblance between their features is notable - save for eye color and nose. Definitely related, these two. The age difference, however, is less defined. Sisters? Cousins? The ambassador's personal records did not indicate living relations aside from 1 mother and 1 daughter, aged 10. The older of the two women twists her head and shoulders around from their oneness with the floor tiles and looks upwards, disbelieving, at Lt. Halos. Lt. Kovani trembles, staring across the short expanse of floor, past the treading boots, past Ambrosia's face, to the limp figure of her fellow - formerly fellow - crewman, sprawled like a simulation dummy over his high-profile prisoner's backside. Her lips mouth something, silently, eyes brimmed with tears on an otherwise expressionless face. "P...prisoner 78493 would be *very* happy to stand..." she manages to get out after some difficulty. Her gaping mouth takes a few more deep breaths, then forms a shaky, sardonic smile while she twists further and the waist and tries feebly to wriggle out from beneath the trooper's body. "Hurry...h-hurry." The three marines occupying the entrance hall of the state room exchange confused, slightly trepidacious glances at Ambrosia's response before her smirk seems to settle them. One marine keeps his weapon trained on the trembling younger woman. "Ma'am, who’syour bunk-mate?" Halo asks, gesturing with the business end of her weapon as the third of the fire-team aids the slender woman in hefting the weighty wounded body of the fallen stormtrooper off of her. "We need to move quickly. We don't have long before the Empire realizes we're aboard. Are you ready to move?" "Blaster Fire?" the XO chimes in stern and exacerbated. "Do we have intruders -- Con, resound general quarters, with possible intruders on the crew deck!" "Hold on Con," the spook loudly interjects to keep the officer of the watch from acting. "It is likely just some anxious kid - let's send a group of Naval troopers to investigate. I'll take a detachment of the remaining stormtroopers and secure the hangar bay - just in case." The Captain pauses for a moment before noding to the spook and calling out to the officer of the deck, "Con, Belay the XO's last - remain at general quarters, continue fire suppression and damage control operations. Signal the squad of Storptroopers in the Hangar to expect Major Legrand." While the order is being relayed, Major Legrand, the beige clad spook briefly comes to attention and snaps his heals before dashing off to the turbolift. "Captain, Con, Aye Aye - Belaying XO's last, continuing current operations, relaying message to hangar" the officer of the deck calls back before returning to from the Captain to his duties. He turns to the communications officer in the Starboard crew pit and relays the order, "Com, signal the hangar deck and relay the Captain's complements and his message." "Con, Com - relaying Captain's complements and orders, Aye." the young crewman calls out before picking up a receiver and calling the hangar deck. "My..." Ambrosia reclaims her feet, rising unsteadily to her knees and reaches, blindly, in Kovani's direction. "My doctor. She comes, too." Her left hand struggles briefly with the clasp sealing trooper helmet to neck before it finally relents to the clumsy motor skills of those fingers. The Ambassador rips it off abruptly, exposing the face, the identity of the slain. The action, coupled with the eager weapons hovering 'round her, triggers a noise of dismay from the 'doctor'. Kovani ignores Ambrosia's offered hand, standing on her own two feet and glaring ahead to the marine seemingly in charge of this 'rescue' operation. "No more killing. The crew, the soldiers, they have lives, families, too. If you aren't the terrorists they claim you to be, then...then no more killing." Ambrosia stares down into the sweat-streaked face of a young man that couldn't been much beyond twenty. Pursing her lips together, she palms his eyes closed and Kovani with a wobbly step aside. Halo regards the demanding woman with the expression of someone genuinely bemused. "He would..." she starts, before thinking better of it. She looks to Ambrosia, moving to claim the fallen trooper's weapon she hands it back toward her comrade. "She...Caspian?" knitted brows doing nothing to disguise her confusion. "Alpha Two to Bravo. Confirm acquisition...plus, uhh...one?" an uncertain shrug of his shoulders. "Proceed to rendevous." 9 moans, semi-unconscious as his face is touched. The smoking chest plate of his armor has saved him, but the blow to his head when he fell has rendered him unconscious -- with a great deal of rest and bacta he will recover. Elsewhere on the ship, on the fore part of the deck, a group of Naval troopers are getting to their feet and checking their sidearms to come jogging toward VIP country - but they are still a few minutes away. Major Legrand's turbo lift is also on the move, speeding toward the Hangar deck. "Nope," Ambrosia replies tersely to Halos. "Look, he's okay," she murmurs in Kovani's ear, stirring the civilian-attired Imperial from her high horse, and takes hold of the younger woman's elbow with a nod towards the reviving lil trooper. "We won't shoot unless we need to. I told you this." Her other hand tucks under the girl's chin and holds it firmly to focus eye-to-eye. "Just follow. Yes?" Kovani stiffens, allowing her 'patient' two brief seconds of contact before she breaks free and shoots proverbial laser beams from her eyes, aimed at the maternal offender. Ambrosia returns the glare, unflinching, before pivoting on bare heel and marching herself towards the exit. "What in the hell are we still standing around for?" This entire exchange was unexpected and Halos is plainly out of her element. Fortunately the stirring of the trooper gives her something else to focus on. Switching to her weapon's stun emitter she pumps a powerful bolt into the soldier's prostrate form. "Yes ma'am!" a wordless 'watch her' glance exchanged with her marines, Halo's finger presses to her earpiece as she moves back to the corridor. "Alpha to Bus. This is Alpha-One. Package plus one acquired and in transit to your location. Skiff's not big enough for two, so prep for a hot extraction. Copy?"." "You know how to use one of these?" the marine who'd helped remove the fallen stormtrooper from Ambrosia asks of her, his confiscated weapon offered up. In the hallway, the klaxons and lights continue to remind the populace the ships is at General quarters - which means if you don't have a duty station or battle station to get to, you should be in your quarters, awaiting instructions - not in the hallway. In the Hangar the stormtroopers have received word and are moving to assemble at the base of the turbolift to await the Major. The fire is beginning to be put out. There a smoldering remains and hot spots on the TIE, but the worst of it is over. Ambrosia eyes the rifle hungrily and snatches it without hesitation. Her fingers run over its lines in study. "Oh, I think we're well acquainted," says the 'peaceful' diplomat of the instrument of war. Her grip is firm, holding it close, but it isn't long before the barrel bobs in rhythmic nod, matching the steady wavering of her wrists. "Not sure my aim will be as true as once was...but if you do your jobs well, it won't need to be!" A mirthless smile there, and she points a finger to Kovani. "She'd be more of an asset. But what's the plan?" "Bus to Alpha-One." the pilot righting himself in his seat to answer the transmission. "Copy your last - hot extraction." "Raiders, hustle!" Halos barks the order, their leap-frogged progression abandoned for sheer speed as they make best time back to their rendevous with Bravo Team. "What the hell is going on over there..." the co-pilot of the Republic-held shuttle asks, gesturing through the viewscreen to the assembling stormtroopers. "Bus to Alpha...looks like they're prepping welcome party for you down here. Want us to close some roads?" The stormtroopers have assembled in a semi-circle by the time the lift doors open and the Major steps out. "All right, let's start working the shuttles and small craft - board anything powered up and shut it down -- fan out." The Naval troopers have reached mid deck as the jog aft- they will be in VIP country in less than a minute, but they can not yet see it as the hallways are not perfectly straight. It's pretty obvious from the start that Ambrosia is NOT going to keep pace well with the speeding marines. She trots along the best she can, in a stiff, atrophied kind of way, in a long, fussy gown, no less. New knees are great, but they do take some time to break in. Kovani hovers between, quite capable of matching the rebel runners, but hesitant to leave Ambro in the dust. Gritting her teeth in frustration, Ambrosia huffs and puffs into second gear, trying to will her ligaments into obedience. "I...this is your plan?" she pants to the nearest marine. "Ahhhhh...hell!" The pilot spits as the Imperials start to lock down the hangar bay. "Get a blaster!" he orders his co-pilot whose already moving for the small arms locker. "Don't worry, sir. Ain't no jackboot setting foot on THIS ship!" he beams with a plucky confidence, even as he tightens his grip around the barrel to steady his adrenaline trembling hands. "Bus to Stike-Alpha. Stormtroopers are shutting down. I need a go order! Copy?" Strike-Bravo has already returned to the turbolift, their weapons resting atop the false bottom of their cargo container, out of sight of anyone who simply rounds a corner and runs into them, but readily accessible should that happen. The marine engaged with Ambrosia spreads a slightly deranged grin across his face. "You're on the flagship, ma'am. We..." he gestures with a nod toward the rest of the squad ahead. "...were the only ones who'd take the mission, cause...well..." "Strike-Alpha, copy Bus. Hold...Strike-Bravo, rig the lift. We're closing it down after us. Bus...LIGHT 'EM UP!" "Don't have to ask /me/ twice..." the pilot chortles, boarding ramp retracting at the flick of a switch. A thunderous reverberating scream peels off, echo between the deck and bulkheads as her laser cannons fire on the first of the turbolifts, a steady thudding pace of fire walking between them, port to starboard. On the hangar deck the Lambda's 4 fire linked Laser Cannons catch the troopers off guard and drops half the squad in the first volley. The bulk of the remaining troopers fall quickly. The beige-clad Major is pined as a dead trooper falls onto him. Naval crew all throughout the hangar drop to ground instinctively in search of cover. There are no weapons emplacements in the hangar with the firepower needed to deal with the Lambda shuttle, it has completely established superiority for the moment. "What was that?" the XO on the bridge barks before reaching over the com officer's shoulder and slapping the talk button to speak to the hangar. The bridge has been listening to the reports on the fire damage control come in, "Hangar, XO, what is your situation - over." Ambrosia's lip curls into a snarl, ire clearly drawn by what's inferred from the marine's response. Only ones? "Pompous ass was right," she grumbles, Thel's words echoing through her skull. No time for the sacrificial lamb to lament her status now, however. Now is the time for concentrating on moving, one foot after the other. Only if they make it to the awaiting transport will there be time for vengeful thoughts. She startles, then, as Kovani materializes back at her side and takes hold of her arm in offering of support. No words are spoken, but a look is exchanged between the two women, as the older one starts to wheeze. "What sort of medical supplies do you have at your disposal, on board this 'Bus'?" Kovani directs towards the marine from around Ambro's shoulder. "It’s a pretty /bad/ plan, ma'am..." the marine seems apologetic, but is way past sugar coating it. "...so, volunteers only. Maybe someone else woulda picked it up but she..." he nods toward Halos. "...didn't wait. And where the El-Tee goes, we go." he shrugs with a dichotomous mixture of grimness and pluck. With luck, the conversation was keeping her mind off of her injuries. "Err...there's a medkit?" he ventures, unsure of how much to disclose. Not that there was much more to tell. "What do you need?" "You want to take any longer, Lieutenant?" the sergeant leading Strike-Bravo calls down the corridor with relief as Halos' group rounds it. "Maybe grab a bite to eat, a holo-film...there's no rush or anything!" Kaaa-dttuung. Ka-dtung. Ka-dtung the lambda continues to walk its fire across the lifts servicing the bay until her fire arc is exhausted. With the means to reinforce the bay shut down, her attention turns to the TIE racks, a crazed grin on the pilot's face. "This one's for Alderaan..." he fires. "...Sluis Van..." again "...Cochran..." once more "...Chandrilla." the broadcast system engaged, drunk on the power at his disposal, and begins to taunt the Imperial ground crews. "How you like that? Huh? You want some more? How's it feel to be outgunned?! Death, doom, destruction - the laser fire blows open service panels and various system fluids and gasses begin venting into the hangar. The danger from the fumes and gasses is beginning to rival the laser fire. "XO, Hangar," one of the crewman calls back into a comlink he managed to grab. He coughs a number of times before continuing, "we are taking heavy fire from a lambda - the lambda has shot up the port engineering conduits pretty bad - we are venting cryogens, hydraulics, steam and likely some other things. We are going to clear the deck," the crewman is not giving the XO an option, "will let you know when you can vent the hangar." "Um, something to counteract possible respiratory arrest, for starters," Kovani answers back. "Might not be a problem, but given her history here, it's a damn possibility!" "Pipe down," Ambrosia growls aside to the medic helping her haul her ass along. "We're 'there'. Possibly." Scowling pointedly ahead to the team leader calling crap, she reminds herself where the trigger is on her new toy, stroking it methodically with a finger. "Was dining on a fine roast and delectable vintage earlier. I imagine it's still sitting there. Perhaps we should go back and fetch it! Give you something else to chew on." "Other than my ass?" Halos joins in, seeming to have relocated her sense of humor, now that victory is nearing. She points out Kovani with a rather overt bit of pointing. "She's a defector, Ambassador insists on extraction." The turbolift car is dotted with small hemispherical detonate charges - the whole of Strike-Bravo's unused supply having been exhausted on making damned sure that when they throw the switch, this tube is put out of commission. A remote detonator handed off to Halo as everyone piles into the car. One last chance to brief the troops before the home stretch. Before whatever hellscape the hangar bay has descended into. Halo turns to face her men. "You've done good so far Raiders. Just a little further, and we'll all be home. /But/ whatever happens down there, you get the VIP's on that shuttle. That's the mission. They make it off this ship, or none of us do." Lasers streak through the venting gasses - while the gasses begin choking the crew, they do provide cover as the cryogens cause water and hydraulic fluid to condense into a toxic fog that gets thicker and thicker. The Imperial crew has been trained well, as the evacuation klaxons go off, each one begins working his or her way to the ladders up. As they move along the ground what crew didn't grab respirators when the first fire broke out grab them now from storage stations they can find blind folded. There are not many wounded to drag along as the lasers firing on them so outclass the simple jump suits they are wearing. On the bridge the Captain closes his eyes and shakes his head, mentally cursing every beige shirt wearing buffoon he has to serve with - perhaps the Major won't make it out of the hangar. He walks out onto the command dais and takes the Con. "Com, signal the fleet - let them know that any ship that launches from our hangar is to be vaporized, Gunnary tell all batteries to prepare to fire on fleeing ships - no tractor beams." The two indicated departments echo the commands back in formal style, confirming that they understand. "I'll express my gratitude and praise from the belly of your ship," Ambrosia confirms from her sandwiched position between bodies. Lacking the elbow room (or butt room) to adequately squat, she's forced to remain standing, hugging rifle closely. Kovani, meanwhile, has shifted her focus to her feet. Defector. Such a terrible word. If she'd stayed, they would have without a doubt executed her for being an accomplice. After being dragged into the mess, what choice did she have? Without knowing what to expect, and the pilot of the Ticonderoga busy expressing himself, the marines set up for a breach - they file in around the vaguely circular walls and draw a deep breath as the car slows, inertia moving their stomachs and pulses racing in anticipation for a step into the unknown. The doors snap open, the scream of laser fire blindly lancing through the noxious smoke filled bay the only clear way to tell just where the Lambda even /is/. "Strike-Alpha to Bus. Strike Alpha to Bus! Cease fire and prep for evac. We're coming aboard! The crew of the Nemisis takes no interest in the marines, if they even see them - they are getting off the deck in preparation for venting the deck to space. "Con, Weapons - all batteries report in green," the weapons officer reports the Captain who nods calmly, "Weapons, give all batteries a free fire order - Com, declare the surrounding space a free fire zone on the space control and emergency channels." The divisions formally repeat their orders before execution, each confirming that they understand. The radio crackles to life "Attention All Craft, Attention All Craft, Attention All Craft - this is His Imperial Majesty's ship Nemesis - we are declaring a radius 25 kilometers about the ship a free fire zone, I repeat we are declaring the space extending 25 kilometers in all directions about the Nemesis a free fire zone. Do not approach or you may be fired on - I repeat do not approach or you may be fired upon." From there the signal repeats and will keep repeating until the situation is over. Nearly identical oaths blurt from the Ambassador and her 'doctor's lips as the opening lift reveals...death. Death in many forms, it seems! It's a medic's nightmare, the prospect of running through this toxic haze. Not to mention...what has it done to her former friends and coworkers?!? The color drains from Kovani’s face and the heat of her temper rises. "WHAT HAVE YOU DONE!!" She screams, clawing and shoving at the backs of the bigger people in front of her. Ambrosia's expression mirrors disapproval at the scene unveiled before them, tired expression turning furious. She drops the rifle in favor of trying, in vain, to pin Kovani's arms still before the girl gets herself killed. "We'll hash this out later, Liora, but now is NOT the time for tr-UNGH" Lt Kovani elbows the ambassador in the gut, perhaps unintentionally, mid-struggle. The laser fire subsides as Kovani and Ambrosia take in the hard reality of galactic war. The sudden absence of steady thundering shots from the cacophony of klaxons and venting gasses seeming almost cinematic. Holovids devoted to 'realism' frequently omit the most obnoxious battlefield sounds when simulating the effect of 'blaster-shock' for the audience. A hollow ringing in the ears. For those hardened to the conditions, the hiss of hydrolics lowering the boarding ramp once more is distinctive enough. With a rush of air, thrusters fire in short sharp bursts to disperse the toxic smog in a wall repulsed from from the Ticonderoga's hull. It forms a rather beautiful billowing nova of condensed particulates that wash into the open turbolift as marines find themselves the victims of an enraged civilian. Elbows, stocks, even the grav-sled find purchase in soft squishy people-parts until Halo, spluttering with a lungful of the toxic gas turns her weapon on the young lieutenant. A hallow snapping bolt of energy from the stun emitter catching the Imperial square in the chest. "Get...*coughcough* her to...*hack*...the shuttle...*wheeze*" The marines sweep forward, picking through burning, twisted metal and smoldering corpses toward their evac. The last of the Imperial crew clears off the deck and the crewman who elected himself the deck officer in the chaos slaps the intercom to life, "Com, Hangar - all those we can find," he coughs, spewing up a little blood, "and all those who can move are off deck - we are sealing now." With that the group manually triggers the door. "We are clamping down the lines up one junction. We'll let you know when you can vent - over." Gagging, assaulted by noxious gas and suffering a bruised solar plexus, Ambrosia stumbles out after the marines, clinging all the while to a now unconscious Kovani. "T-thank-" she squeaks out to Halos, en route to their evac. Her weapon discarded, it hardly served any purpose now, Halo ducks under the free shoulder of the unconscious Lt Kovani and with a heavy, pulls the woman across her back in a well practiced fire-crew lift. "Move!" she insists, staggering forward through smoke and flames until she can hand off the unconscious woman to another marine. "Raiders!" she calls hoarsely, stamping hard on the gantry to audibly guide them to the ship as the co-pilot counts his charges aboard. "We!" Cough. "Are!" Splutter. Hack. "Leaving!" With the last of the men on board, the vessel gives a thunderous roar and rises from the deck as the boarding ramp rises, Halos helped into the belly of the ship by its co-pilot as the shuttle smoothly banks toward the space-facing maw of the bay, loosing blind volleys in the general direction of the emitting walls. "Con, Hangar - we have the leaks clamped down," The crewman calls back over the intercom from one deck up. "You are clear to vent the deck. -over." With the Captain nods to the shield control officer who drops the shields on that section of the hangar -- and before the lambda can take out the shields they drop. As they drop the contents of the hangar, namely debris, broken TIE fighters, and of course dead bodies and the toxic cloud go spewing out into the void. Weeks of intermittent starvation, dehydration, and general abuse had taken a heavy toll on Ambrosia's insides, and the damage still exists beneath her newly made-over exterior. Heavy dose of fumes and bout of physical exertion (brief though it was) is therefore NOT a welcomed experience for the 'canary'. Understandably, once clear of the shuttle's danger zone, she collapses onto the floor of her new cage. Her fit of coughing and wheezing is just one of many, no doubt, to fill the Ticongeroga. Relishing the coolness of the unforgiving floor beneath her face, Ambrosia curls and remains there, as long as she's left alone. Kovani, meanwhile, is just destined to flop wherever she's dumped, having no conscious say in the matter, though her belly does spasm in reaction to the gas, threatening to spew whatever she'd last eaten all over her gracious hosts. The hull of the lambda shudders as a broken shell of a TIE fighter smashes into it, knocking anyone not already sat down onto their ass. Stabilizers briefly overwhelmed, the shuttle falls to the mercy of decompression. Fighting to maintain control, the shuttle collides with the superstructure of the 'Nemesis', a low velocity impact that bounces the pilot's head off the dash answering once for all the question of every nugget starfighter pilot 'Why do I have to wear that goofy helmet?'. "Uuughhh..." he groans, shaking it off as his co-pilot clambers shakily into the cockpit beside him, he calls back. "Strap in, everyone! This is going to get bumpy!" And the crew of the Nemesis waits - the crew are anxious, but no one wants to fire at junk for fear of missing the important target. To make it worse, none of them know what ship to look for - it could be a TIE, a Lambda, a dropship - anything. Detonite on a remote detonator. Which Halo regards with a sort of wry amusement, the tube held in her hand, she gives an exhausted shrug and collapsing backward onto the cold durasteel decking, presses the button. And the blast takes out the aft-most turbolift and the opens the sewage pipes that run parallel to the shaft to space. Liquid waste from the ships sewage begins being sucked into the open hangar and vented into space. Special systems throughout the ship clamp the system down so the whole ship is not emptied - but it is more than enough material to make an amazing mess, thousands of liters of mess. From her new seat, as 'strapped in' as she's going to manage, Ambrosia sags forward onto her knees and focuses very firmly on not vomiting. The sight of a delightfully red little button though, does catch her eye, and she turns her long look aside to squint at the prone mission leader. "Don't wanna know...but I like it," she groans before clamming up tightly, palms pressed over her sealed lips. She's looking a bit green about the gills, each jarring 'thud' from debris adding to the nausea. Her eyes squeeze shut in attempts to capture the little bit of privacy afford to her by the ship, this time and place.